


An Ocean Away

by the_dormouse



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:22:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28183860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_dormouse/pseuds/the_dormouse
Summary: When Feyre Archeron and her family are driven out of their home, they find themselves in America. The land of opportunity, or so they say.Inspired by Melanie Crowder’s Audacity
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

There was a fine line between thrill and dread. They felt similar, that electric rush in Feyre’s veins as she surveyed her surroundings. There wasn’t much to see, but bodies packed tightly together, trudging along in line.

If she rose up on her toes, Feyre could just barely catch a glimmer of sea. A dark blue grey that reminded her of her mother’s eyes. She could smell the salt in the air and hear the crashing of the sea. Thrill and dread. Adventure and desperation.

Her father and sisters stood ahead of her, each holding their meager belongings. They were leaving behind home, leaving Poland. Or fleeing really. Fleeing the growing tension and hostility, trying to start over.

Not much of a start though, Feyre thought, clutching her small sack. She had only some spare clothing and the simple necklace that had belonged to her mother. Ahead of her, Elain was twirling a daisy between her fingers nervously. Her vegetable garden had been left behind. Everything had been left behind.

Behind her, a commotion broke out, pushing and shoving and a clamor of voices. Feyre fell forward, quickly righting herself.

She did not know what their fate held. No one boarding the ship did.

* * *

Feyre stared at the ceiling, imagining the rest of the passengers on the ship above her. She rolled over and peered down, to the lower bunks, where Nesta and Elain laid side by side. Nesta was facing away, though Feyre assumed she was not yet asleep. Elain actually was asleep, which was a strange feat to accomplish amidst the murmuring and crying and fussing. 

On a high bunk, near Feyre, was a young woman with a baby. The woman rocked her child, humming something in an unfamiliar language. But the tone was familiar. A mother humming a simple lullaby. Feyre ignored the tightening in her chest and resisted the urge to reach for her mother’s necklace. Instead she listened to the woman hum, closed her eyes, and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

The days dragged on wearily at sea. At night, Feyre would try to imagine the unsteady rocking of the boat as the gentle swaying of a crib, instead of a furious push and pull, the machinations of an ocean wanting to drag everyone into itself. At night, Feyre would try to ignore the voices and tears around her. She’d try to forget about their life back home, and focus on the new one ahead of them. 

There was little light at the bottom of the ship. There seemed little light for the future as well. Everyday, Feyre would tell those around her,  _ it’ll be alright,  _ ignoring the voice in her head that laughed at her. 

2 days later, the baby fell ill. A storm started to rage. The world tumbled around on its axis and everyone was left merely trying to hold on. Above and below decks, the passengers were plunged into chaos. Across from her, the woman rocked the feverish baby and hummed her lullaby in a shaky voice, inches from tears. 

_ Everything would be alright. _

* * *

They had arrived. There were tears of a different sort now, relief and joy. But not from everyone. Not the young woman, alone now, clutching the person she had lost to her chest still. The storm had died down, but it had taken people with it in its frenzy. 

Passengers filed out in groups. Her father walked unsteadily with his cane, Nesta and Elain behind him. Nesta kept her chin held high as she walked past people. Elain glanced back at the woman, but Nesta pulled her along. What was there to do?

Feyre hesitated, not wanting to lose sight of her sisters, but in the end she climbed up the woman’s bunk. She handed the woman the bread she hadn’t eaten, but climbed back down without a word. The woman spoke in a language Feyre didn’t understand, but took a slow bite of the bread. 

Quickly, Feyre wove through the masses to reach her family. Nesta kept her gaze ahead, but Elain reached out a hand. They did not know what their fate held, but they knew it was time to face it.

* * *

Their dingy New York apartment fit two bedrooms and half a kitchen. Feyre and her sisters shared a bed, but that wasn't unusual. It had been this way for nearly as long as she could remember.

The shuttered windows did little to keep out the growing chill. The cramped apartment did little to ease that ache of loneliness. Feyre missed their old life. She missed Claire from back home. Claire, who had often snuck books to Feyre and sometimes sweets that her mother made. Feyre hoped Claire was okay. She feared that she wasn’t.

They didn't have any money, minus some of the meager savings left over from their shop back home. Feyre would have to go out and find a job soon. Anything to keep them afloat in a new, foreign place. Despite the grim situation, Feyre couldn't help a thrill of excitement. Everything was indeed new here. A new language, different clothes.

Feyre slipped out of the room, quietly, so as not to wake anyone. She walked out of their apartment and down the rickety staircase, to a cold, sunny day. People crowded the sidewalks, and Feyre soon joined the crowd. 

She only knew a few words. “Work” was one of them. She looked around for most of the day, until a man in crisp looking clothes and a hat gave her a once over. It left her feeling dirtier than before, but she stood her ground. The man pointed in a certain direction.

“Work for girls like you,” he said. Feyre didn’t know what girls like her meant, but she nodded thankfully and followed his direction anyway, eager to get away.

* * *

Her first “paycheck.” It was a small amount, but every penny was important. 

She’d earned it from the “sweatshop.” A word for the tightly crammed warehouse filled with people. Her block was all girls around her age. They sewed all day at their stations. They had few breaks in the long day. But who could afford to complain? The last girl who did was fired. So most kept their mouths shut.

Feyre attended free English classes after work sometimes. She didn’t tell her family, and if they noticed her staying out later, they didn’t mention it. She’d walk in and slump down in a chair somewhere in the middle. Their teacher was kind and always offered up smiles. Feyre often forgot how much they were needed until one was flashed at her.

She’d visit the library next, picking up slim volumes in English. She’d read a page or two, stumbling through the sea of words. Then, as her eyes started to gutter, she’d walk back out into the busy city streets, sounding out words to herself before they drifted away into darkened skies.

Then, she’d go home. Nesta or Elain would leave out bread or broth for her if there was any left. She’d eat and slip into bed. She didn’t even need lullabies anymore. Tiredness dragged her into dreamless sleep.

* * *

“What’s happening?” she asked Alis. 

She had met Alis her first day there. Alis was the same age as Feyre, with pale brown hair tied tightly into a bun. She was Polish too, having arrived almost 2 years ago. She had a family to provide for, nieces and nephews. Alis was solemn at work, but often broke into a smile outside when she breathed in the crisp fall air. She was the closest thing Feyre had made to a friend here. 

Alis shook her head and kept sewing. Feyre asked again, “What’s everyone whispering about?”

“Some of the men joined a  _ union. _ Mr. Freeman isn’t very happy about it,” Alis responded softly, in their shared language. Some of the other girls glanced sharply over, as if willing them to be quiet.

Mr. Freeman was their boss. It was a fitting name. Free man, for he was certainly free to do as he pleased and he was certainly cheap. He often paced the isles, often yelled. Everytime he neared their workstations, chatter died out. 

Today, Freeman had been shut up in his office all day. It had seemed like a blessing at first, peace from his grating voice and wandering, cruel eyes. Given the circumstances brewing, however, Feyre wondered if it was more of an omen. Alis seemed to agree, for she didn’t speak again after that and kept sewing.

_ Union.  _ Not a new word anymore, but an intriguing one nonetheless. Here was another.  _ Freedom. _

Feyre kept sewing.


	2. Chapter 2

Feyre walked down the street, a dingy hat she had found perched atop her head, wrapped in a pink ribbon. She had asked around and found herself standing in front of a gray descript building. 

Next to it was a sign reading, _Union Headquarters._ The sign was slightly crooked. Feyre put on her most confident look, chin up like Nesta, and strode into the building.

She was directed to an office, at the end of a long hallway. Each step echoed dully on the tiled floor, and her heart pounded to the same insistent beat, until she came to a stop in front of the office. Softly, she tapped her knuckles to the door. Then, after hesitating, she knocked twice loudly.

The door swung open to reveal a man probably in his early forties. He wore a suit and a tie. He smiled warmly.

Feyre had made a decision. She no longer wanted to be a mouse in the corner, accepting what came her way. No, this was a new beginning, and Feyre would be damned if she didn’t make the most of it.

So, she took a seat, and explained, her voice calm and collected.

The man nodded sympathetically, and Feyre thought she had made an ally. So imagine her surprise, when he told her _not yet._ When he said, with an ounce of regret on his face, that _women were temporary workers_ and that _it was more important to secure worker’s rights for men, before the women._

Feyre left stunned. But nonetheless determined.

* * *

The meeting room was packed with people. Some in suits, like the man Feyre had met before, others were dressed more or less like her. Worn out clothes and shabby shoes. Most were men.

At her first meeting, Feyre saw one other girl sitting in the middle. She was perfectly still, a pretty blonde picture of composure. She glanced up, catching Feyre’s eye, and beamed. Despite not knowing her, Feyre walked over and took a seat beside her.

“Mor,” the blonde offered, in a cheerful, but straightforward way. She held out a hand, which Feyre shook. 

“Feyre,” she answered softly. “Have you been to these meetings before?” Her English had improved, it was clear and sure, though her accent was obvious enough. 

Mor sighed. “Only one or two.”

Feyre raised an eyebrow. “Not successful, then, I take it?”

“That’s one way to put it.”

After the initial meeting, Feyre sought out Mor every time. On the third meeting, when the crowd was asked if anyone else wanted to speak, Feyre said _yes._ She stood up, meeting Mor’s encouraging gaze, before facing the room and speaking.

Afterwards, she heard the same speech as before. _Later. You’ll get your turn._ But as people filed out, Mor reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. 

A man walked up to them. He introduced himself as Mr. Sawyer. “Don’t stop,” he murmured, as he left. “Keep showing up, keep speaking. They’ll crack and see the light eventually.”

Feyre walked home hand in hand with Mor that day, the words ringing in her ears. _Don’t stop._

* * *

Gradually, a few others joined them. United in their mission, the girls continued to attend meetings, their shared voices louder than any individual’s. Feyre found herself speaking more, backed by her newfound allies and friends.

She’d met a young man, Mor’s cousin, at one of the meetings. His name was Rhys, and he had messy hair, a devious smile, and a gleam in his eyes. He was supportive and understanding, and he cheered along with the others when the announcement was finally made; there was now a Women’s Garments Factory Union. 

But their work had merely begun.

* * *

The frigid air seeped into Feyre’s bones as she stood outside the factory. She thought of their first strike, their numbers small, but the tangible feeling of victory. Until the factory brought in the “scabs.”

The higher ups had sought out people desperate enough to work for less. She shouldn’t have been surprised.

It had been an uphill battle after that. Most of the workers had families to take care of. Few were willing to give up their jobs for what seemed a futile effort. 

Today, there was a larger crowd than normal. Beside Feyre, Mor shifted from foot to foot, cheeks red, hands stuffed under her arms. She wore her usual, show stopping grin. 

“Look at these people, Fey.”

The day dragged on, til murmurs and panic shot through the crowd. Burly men in blue uniforms had arrived on the scene. Some scattered, while others attempted to stand their ground. It made little difference in the end. 

One grabbed Mor by the arm, dragging her away, while another went for Feyre. She struggled against his harsh grip.

“Why are you doing this?” Feyre cried.

“Disorderly conduct,” came the gruff reply. 

As he dragged her away, Feyre glanced back at the factory, and thought she could see faces in the windows watching her. 

* * *

The cell she was in was small and damp. She felt alright, minus the bruises on her arm, but she hated the anger and disappointment that clamored inside her. 

_Disorderly conduct._ But harassing the young girls simply trying to do their job, limiting breaks, keeping them past work hours without extra pay, and locking the fire escapes weren’t disorderly?

She’d spent the few hours stewing in her thoughts, until loud steps echoed in front of the cell door. It was Mr. Sawyer and a police officer. 

The door was unlocked, and Feyre rushed out.

“You’re free to go. Do behave more...properly in the future,” advised the officer.

Feyre wanted to lash out, but she bit her tongue. Mr. Sawyer rested a hand on her shoulder and shook his head. 

Together, they walked out of the station and to headquarters. There, many like her were resting on floors and couches. Mr. Sawyer led her to where Mor was perched on a chair.

Mor smiled at her, more subdued than normal, over a cup of tea. “Do you ever wonder if we’re doing the right thing?”

Feyre sighed. She thought of the dingy apartment and her sisters. The strikes had left them with little money. Her family had disapproved of course, but they didn’t understand.

“What are we supposed to do? Stay quiet?”

Mor frowned. “Well, I’ve never been good at that.”

“I think I used to be, but I don’t want to anymore.”

She rested her head on Mor’s shoulder and replayed the events of the day. No, Feyre would no longer be quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on Audacity by Melanie Crowder.


	3. Chapter 3

Loud footsteps thudded behind her. Feyre sped up, her heart creeping into her throat as she tried to rush home.

She didn’t know why they were following her. She didn’t dare to wonder. 

Glancing over her shoulder, she could see the three tall figures in dark clothing. Their menacing silhouettes stark against the milky evening sky. 

The road she was walking was empty, and even if it had not been, Feyre wondered how many would be quick to help her. She broke out into a run, her worn out boots skidding on ice.

The men quickly caught up to her. Feyre cried out and lashed with her boots, her head, her nails, but her struggle did little to prevent meaty fists and thick boots from breaking her skin.

Eventually, her cries died out, as she lay on the road. The hat with the pink ribbon that Feyre had taken some pride in was crumpled and torn a few feet away. The men stalked off, leaving Feyre lying near motionless, thin rivers of blood staining the ice around her.

* * *

Feyre awoke to hushed voices and blinding white light. As her eyes fluttered open, she could make out a blurred figure rushing towards her.

Mr. Sawyer gave her a weak smile. He started to speak, but Feyre couldn’t make out what he was saying. “Thank god...concussion...gorillas.”

Gorillas. Feyre’s mind latched on to that word. “Must have been hired by the company,” Mr. Sawyer said.

The three menacing men. Feyre tried to summon up any indignation at what had happened, but the ache in her bones and pain in her head dragged her down in the inky black depths of sleep.

* * *

The next time Feyre awoke, the room was quiet and still. 

A doctor walked in, in a crisp white lab coat. “Ah, you’re awake. You just missed your family.”

“My family?” Feyre asked, her voice rough.

He nodded. “Your sister, Elain, said they’d be back tomorrow.”

Feyre struggled to sit up, and the doctor hurried to help. “I’d be careful about moving too much. You got lucky. Minor concussion, bruised ribs, but nothing too serious. You’ll be free to go in a few days.”

“Thank you,” she said. She felt disoriented still, as if her head was floating somewhere else. The attack lingered in her mind, as did Mr. Sawyer’s words. 

The doctor gave her a pat on the shoulder, before striding out.

Feyre sighed. The blank hospital walls seemed to sigh back.

* * *

In the end, she’d stayed in the hospital for 4 days. Mr. Sawyer had been more than generous in paying the bills her family would not have been able to. 

He’d shrugged off her gratitude when he visited, saying he wished there was more he could have done. 

Her family had indeed come back the next day, having slipped in right after Mr. Sawyer. 

Elain had tears in her eyes which she held back as she wrapped Feyre in a hug. It had been a while since Feyre had been hugged like that.

Her family had only visited once more after that. Elain was busy with sewing and patching up clothes for extra income, as she had been for a while. Apparently, their father had also found a job at a carpenter’s, and Nesta had taken up watching some of the neighbors young children while they were at work.

“Poor kids,” Elain had laughed. “She probably makes them sit at the table all day or do chores.”

Nesta had rolled her eyes and made no comment.

The biggest surprise though had been Rhys. He came in once with Mor, then everyday by himself. He’d stroll in, with his lopsided grin, and sit down on a chair next to Feyre.

He brought in books, which were a joy in the stifling room, and read them aloud to her.

“You know,” he said, “this character reminds of you.”

Feyre hummed. “I don’t think I see the resemblance.”

“Well,” he shifted in his seat. “She’s kind, and brave, and so utterly committed to what she’s fighting for-”

“-that she landed herself in a hospital?” Feyre finished dryly.

Rhys winced. “Not funny. And I was  _ going _ to say she’s so committed that others can’t help but rally behind her.”

“Consider me flattered,” she answered, and though she was laughing about it, she couldn’t help the very real warmth that his words filled her with.

* * *

Home at last. Maybe it wasn’t much of one, but after the hospital, Feyre was more than grateful for their apartment.

“Is that...my hat?” Feyre asked, noticing the rundown thing perched on the kitchen table. 

“Oh, I’ve been meaning to fix it. Maybe add a new ribbon, and it'll be good as new,” Elain said, rustling around in the kitchen.

“Get some bowls, Fey.”

Feyre followed her instructions, setting the bowls down on the table. Elain poured soup into each, while Nesta distributed bread.

“Thank you,” Feyre finally said, her throat tightening. Maybe it was foolish, but the hat had made her feel somewhat normal. Like the girls she saw in the street. And although Feyre knew she didn’t need any hat, the gesture still left her somewhat speechless. She wondered if Elain even knew how much it meant. 

Elain smiled softly. And as their father walked in, his cane clacking, the family sat down to eat together for the first time since they’d crossed the ocean.

* * *

“I don’t suppose you’ll give up the union nonsense now?” Nesta asked sharply, after dinner.

“Nesta,” Elain admonished.

Feyre felt a surge of guilt. She didn’t want to be deadweight, unable to help out her family. But there was no going back now. No backing out of the fight.

Silence fell for a few moments, but eventually Feyre spoke. “Where would the justice be in that? If I give in, because of what happened, it’ll only happen to others.”

“You sound like your mother when you talk like that,” their father said, a rare smile gracing his lips. Everyone started. He so rarely brought up their mother.

That night, Feyre was the earliest in bed. She lay there, looking up at the ceiling. The ache in her bones had started to return after being up and around all day.

When her sisters slipped into bed beside her, Elain was humming an old tune.

> Oj lulaj, lulaj (bis) 
> 
> Siwe óczka stulaj 
> 
> Oj, siwe ocie stulisz 
> 
> do mnie się przytulisz (bis)

> Go to sleep, go to sleep 
> 
> close your blue eyes 
> 
> if you close your blue eyes 
> 
> you’ll cuddle up to me

That night, as she was lulled to sleep by Elain's soft voice, Feyre dreamt of her mother.


	4. Chapter 4

New York City was coated in heavy layers of snow. 

Winter normally bought freezing cold and scarce food. Although Feyre was born on Solstice, she had little love for winter.

But even she couldn't deny that there was something lovely in seeing the world blanketed in pure white. 

Being outside in the cold _did_ take some of the joy out of it though, Feyre thought as she shivered violently. 

Next to her, Rhys laughed. Feyre looked over to see snowflakes falling gently around them. Small, gleaming crystals landed in his dark hair and dotted his lashes. He wrapped an arm around her, and Feyre leaned into him as they walked.

Ever since the incident, Rhys had taken to walking Feyre home. 

Feyre could have stayed inside for once, but the temptation of Rhysand’s company made her brave the cold. And as she walked, tucked into his side, she was glad she did.

* * *

The large room at Union Headquarters felt much less intimidating than it had at first. Feyre now spoke with ease in front of the crowd, and was met with little resistance. Instead, many were familiar with and had an almost begrudging respect for her. 

Today’s meeting had dwindled down quickly. Strikes were ongoing, and there was nothing much to do, after the initial updates had been given. Currently, everyone was busy in their own hum of conversation. 

Sitting at one of the tables, Feyre vaguely listened to Mor and Rhys argue on either side of her. 

Mor’s abrupt squawk of protest drew Feyre from her own mind back into the conversation. “Don’t bother, Mor. Whatever it is, you’ll never be able to set Rhys straight.”

“Set me straight, huh?” Rhys asked, a glimmer of mischief in his eye.

“That’s exactly what she means,” Mor said, throwing one of her gloves at him.

“No need for violence, Morrigan.”

Mor then took off her other glove and flung it at him. “Violence?” She scoffed. “You’re lucky we’re surrounded by people. Too many witnesses.”

Feyre couldn’t help but smile as they dissolved into argument again.

* * *

“Thought we’d find you here,” said Alis.

Feyre grinned, peeking out from over her book. “Is that so?”

A small face peered out from behind Alis’ skirts. She had pale blonde hair tied neatly with ribbons and eyes that flitted across the room.

“My niece, Alana. I was wondering if you could watch her for some time?”

“I suppose so.”

Alis nudged Alana forward, while thanking Feyre.

Feyre gave the girl a smile, hoping to reassure her. It seemed to work, for the young girl gave a large grin in return, revealing a few missing teeth.

“Pleased to meet you, Alana.”

Alis quickly left the two alone, promising to return in an hour or so. 

Feyre quickly found that Alana was quite different from her aunt, with a never ending stream of comments and questions. 

“I like your hat,” the girl exclaimed loudly.

Feyre laughed softly and held a finger to her lips. “Thank you, but we must be a bit quieter in the library.” 

She then toyed with the bright pink ribbon wrapped around her newly fixed hat. Elain had done a wonderful job and would surely be pleased to hear someone complimenting her work.

Feyre found some kids books, which she read to Alana.

The girl seemed overjoyed. Alis often said that Alana, one of many children in her family, felt neglected. Even the simple act of reading to her seemed to be a source of excitement. So much so, that when Alis returned, Alana asked to see Feyre again.

Alis sighed and started to usher her niece out, saying, “we’ll see Lana.”

Feyre followed them out into the cold, walking some of the way with them. When they eventually parted ways, Feyre waved goodbye, and took comfort in Alana’s stream of chatter until it died out behind her.

* * *

Spring had come at last.

In the weeks leading up to it, much had changed. 

For one, the factory had finally agreed to certain conditions. Maybe it wasn’t much, but they ended at a reasonable time everyday and the fire escape doors were no longer locked.

Feyre remembered the look on Mr. Sawyer’s face when he told her. It had been more than just victory, it was...pride. 

“Not to dampen your spirits, but there’s always more to do Miss Archeron,” he’d said.

Feyre found she didn’t mind that. 

* * *

“Alana won’t stop talking about you,” Alis murmured softly.

Feyre smiled, but kept her head ducked down, sewing deftly. They’d been back at work for two weeks now, and while the factory had upheld their conditions, the situation was precarious. 

All the girls were cautious with their new rights and careful not to anger anyone. 

Before Feyre could respond to her friend, a clanging sound echoed through the room. 

A door had been slammed open, and a girl stumbled out, tear stricken and shaky. 

The girl froze as all eyes latched onto her. She turned a furious red, out of anger or shame, Feyre couldn’t tell. She walked across the room and out, avoiding eye contact.

“Back to work, girls!” came a gruff call. A pause, then, “You! Archeron. The boss wants to see you.”

Alis sent her an alarmed glance, but Feyre simply squeezed her hand, before leaving their station. She walked over to Mr. Freeman’s office, ignoring the stares of the girls behind her.

She knocked.

“Come in.”

A deep breath. Then, she opened the door, and walked into the lion’s den.

The walls were pristine, nothing like the outside. Mr. Freeman leaned back on his chair, legs propped up on the desk.

“I suppose you got what you wanted,” he spoke, in a dangerously calm tone. “But you should know that I don’t appreciate being told what to do with my business.”

“It’s your business, but it’s our lives,” she answered. When he bored his dark eyes into her, she wished for a split panicked second that she had said nothing. 

He didn’t respond, and Feyre tested her luck by asking, “what happened to Rosa?” Her mind flashed back to the way the girl stumbled, shaken.

“Same thing that’s going to happen to you.”

Feyre’s heart skipped a beat, and she struggled to keep a straight face. “Is this about the union? You can’t fire me for that.”

“No…” he looked at her thoughtfully, “but I can for stealing.”

Feyre opened her mouth, then shut it. _I didn’t steal,_ she wanted to say. But she knew what he meant, knew that her protests would do little good. He knew as well as she did, that she hadn’t stolen a thing.

“Do you need to be escorted out, Miss Archeron?”

A guard who had been silently standing made his way over to her, hand clamping down on her shoulder.

Her voice was a distant echo in her ears as she muttered _no,_ shrugged off the man’s hand, and strode out of the room. 

Rosa’s tear stricken face lingered in her memory, crowding out Feyre’s own feelings. As she walked out, she gave the girls a weak smile. None of them returned it.

**Author's Note:**

> I read Audacity by Melanie Crowder a while ago and loved it. It's in poetry form, but it reads a lot like narrative. I thought it was written beautifully and loved the main character, who was based of Clara Lemlich. I also read Salt to the Sea by Ruta Sepetys, which I would also recommend, although it's a bit darker. I'm not normally a huge historical fiction fan, but when it's good, it's good. And I thought these two were great, so I couldn't help myself.  
> Thanks for reading!


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